Lessons and Lovers (3 page)

And as Piers had become weaker, she’d simply lain next to him, letting him hold her close while she’d stroked her own pussy and given herself the orgasms her fit young body demanded. She’d not complained, because she’d loved him so much and there was a certain sweetness to masturbating in his arms. For Piers’ part, just to be there when she climaxed seemed to make him happy.

Then one night he’d said, “This isn’t enough for you, my love, is it?”

She’d protested vehemently.

“It is, Piers! It is! I love you, darling! Fucking isn’t everything. I knew what the deal was when we married. I married you for yourself, not your sexual performance.” She touched his dear, gaunt face and looked into his weary eyes, trying to convince him. It
was
the truth. She missed full-on, hard-driving sex quite cruelly, she missed having a man’s rigid flesh stretching her own. But she’d have missed not being with Piers more.

“You’re the sweetest and kindest of girls,” he said softly, his smile wry, “but you’re a terrible liar! You’re the sexiest creature I’ve ever met, my darling Hettie, and you need a damn good rogering! And often!”

“But—”

“No buts!” he said firmly, and even the small effort of raising his voice seemed to drain him. Sinking back against the pillows, he took her hand and clasped it with surprising force. “Will you trust me, Hett?” he asked, “Trust me and not ask questions?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to arrange something. Make something happen. I want you to accept it and enjoy it for my sake. Believe me, it’ll make me as happy as it’ll make you.”

After that, she
did
question him, but he pleaded tiredness, smiled and went straight off to sleep.

The next night, Hettie had left him and returned to her own room, where she’d taken to sleeping so as not to disturb him with her tossing and turning. She’d just begun settling down to another sexless night, when the door opened and Starr stepped soundlessly into the room.

She opened her mouth to speak, then in her mind heard Piers’ voice. “Trust me. No questions.”

This
—the arrival of his strong, virile servant—was Sir Piers Miller’s “arrangement”.

The dawning of this must have been clear on her face. Still without speaking, Starr walked over to the bed and looked down at her. His glacier blue eyes were calm, yet they were asking. She too had to agree. To want him…

It wasn’t difficult. Though she’d been in love with Piers since they’d first met, she was red-blooded enough to appreciate the charms of other men.

And Starr had charms in abundance. He was tall and long-limbed, with broad shoulders and a slim tapered waist. His torso rippled with muscle and his whole body was in superb condition, but in no way heavy. His face was handsome and sculpted, his high cheekbones and hard jawline vaguely hawkish but strangely exciting. To round all this off he had the most piercing and unnaturally blue eyes Hettie had ever seen, and hair that was almost platinum blond. What she could see of it from his brutal, militaristic crew cut.

And when he slipped off the thin robe that was all that clothed him, she saw one of the most impressive cocks she’d ever had the luck to encounter! Thick, with defined veins and almost angry with life, it was frighteningly long and already erect as he lifted the single sheet and climbed into her bed beside her.

To her surprise, any guilt she might have felt ebbed as she moved into Starr’s strong arms. The man would not have come here if it wasn’t what Piers had wanted. And she realized—as she laid her fingers on the warm, velvet skin that sheathed Starr’s mighty erection—that this was what she wanted too.

She knew nothing whatsoever of the inner life of her husband’s enigmatic servant. She was even a little afraid and in awe of the cool, remote blond. But right now, in her lonely nocturnal frustration, she did want him. Furiously. Fabulously. Totally. Starr read her mind and slid his long fingers into her sex, stirring a heavy wetness there that shocked her. He’d only been in the room a couple of minutes and her pussy was running with slick moisture. She curled her hand around his cock and started edging him closer to the place that screamed for him. Starr responded by rubbing her clitoris.

And rubbing and rubbing and rubbing until she had her first quick, light orgasm. With a cry of surprise as much as pleasure, she let go her hold on his cock and squirmed like an eel beneath his touch. While her vagina still pulsed and fluttered, he pushed her gently onto her back, parted her legs and with no poking or probing, no help at all from his hand or hers, thrust into her right to the hilt.

“Oh God, I—” Whatever she might have said was crushed under Starr’s kiss, and pounded out of her as he started fucking her fast and hard.

It was just what she needed. And probably, she acknowledged, half hysterical with sensation, exactly what Piers had ordered for her. Starr had always served the Millers faultlessly, and his performance in bed was no exception. This was the rough primitive sex that Hettie had missed so much. Even when he’d been able to make love, Piers had always been gentle and courtly.

But Starr was fucking her! Shagging her, powering into her and giving her everything a strong, graceful lover could give her! As he thrust into her again and again, stretching her slippery sex in every direction, she screamed and groaned and shouted, hoping that Piers was awake and listening and aware of how much she appreciated what he’d sent to her.

Within minutes, she came again. And again. In this too Starr seemed superhuman. She knew he lifted weights, jogged and practiced a variety of martial arts. She ought to have known he’d be a sexual athlete par excellence too. He seemed inexhaustible, thrusting smoothly and deeply with no sign of either flagging or coming himself. It was Hettie, eventually, who had to sob, “Enough! Please… I…I’m going to pass out!”

Never in her short but enthusiastic sexual life had she come so much and so powerfully. But there was a limit even to ecstasy.

With one final manic lunge, Starr shot his scalding, creamy tribute deep inside her and the heat of it, the fine pulsing spurt of it against her spasming womb, brought a wave of pleasure so acute she really did start to pass out. Tears of relief and gratitude dried on her face as she slid slowly from consciousness. Her last awareness was Starr lifting himself neatly clear of her body.

Mister Perfect, precise as ever, was her final thought before oblivion.

And that was how it’d been throughout those final months with Piers.

By day she would spend her time with her increasingly feeble husband. Talking to him, reading to him, enjoying the benefits of his still-ready wit and his erudite comments on life, the universe and everything. He would inquire quite shamelessly about her sexual wellbeing, and laugh at her blushes as she supplied the details he demanded. The raunchier her escapades, the better Piers liked it.

And her accounts
were
raunchy. Because by night she was getting better sex with just one man than she’d had with any of the lovers she’d had before her marriage.

Starr was skilled and inventive, just as much an artist in bed as he was a technician. The satisfaction, the orgasms he gave her at night were a soothing anodyne to the growing anguish of seeing a loved one die.

If she’d been asked to comment on such a relationship before she’d been in it, Hettie would have been horrified. Filled with disgust and revulsion. But as Piers slipped slowly but surely away from them, it seemed that the knowledge of his young wife’s continuing sexual fulfillment was the one thing that lifted his spirits.

On that last morning, Piers had died in her arms—with Starr ever watchful in attendance—a final devilish smile on his lips as he’d listened to an explicit description of the previous night’s pleasures.

Yes, Starr was the one who’d stood beside her as her husband had died, and the one who’d sustained her at his funeral. He was the one who’d supported her in every way. He was the one who’d run her household and maintained the pattern of her life while she’d fought to come to terms with her loss.

It was difficult to remember what she’d done with herself during the early months of her widowhood. But Starr had been the one constant reassuring presence, always there when she needed him.

And it was Starr’s strong arms, beautiful golden-tanned body, and virile, thrusting cock that had finally brought both her body and her heart back to life last night.

Mysterious Starr was both her servant and her lover, and now, revivified by the power of the sex that joined them, she was going to breach his wall of silence…even if it killed her!

I must’ve been out of my mind to agree to this!

The next day, Hettie walked into the First Class Lounge at Heathrow to await the arrival of her mysterious visitor.

Almost before she’d framed the words in her mind, she was blushing. Hot blood rose in her face and throat, staining her ivory skin as erotic images formed.

Of course, she’d been out of her mind. She’d been floating in orgasmic euphoria when she’d said yes. She’d had Starr naked in her bed, and his fingers moving skillfully in the folds of her sex. Was it any wonder she hadn’t been thinking too clearly?

Starr had been gone when she’d woken up, of course. He’d never once stayed the whole night while Piers had been alive, so she supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her that he hadn’t still been beside her this morning. Yet there’d been a clearly defined indentation where he’d lain, and when she’d rolled into it—breathing in his subtle spice and citrus cologne and the blood-stirring tangs of his sweat and his semen—she’d found that the pillow and the sheet were still warm.

Yes, he’d been close most of the night, and fucked her—repeatedly—with a healing tenderness and vigor. But as he’d handed her into the back of her limousine for their journey here to the airport, his strong golden face had been as still and unrevealing as ever. And there was nothing in his smooth, athletic body language to give any hint that he’d spent so many of the hours of darkness at work between her thighs.

Damn you, Starr!
Confused feelings threatened to capsize her sense of sexual wellbeing.
You never acknowledge what we share! You never give a thing away! Doesn’t it mean anything to you?

Don’t
I
mean anything to you?

Surely I must though, she thought. Nobody could make love with such power and tenderness and feel nothing. When she’d been in his arms last night, and he’d been inside her, she could have sworn she’d heard some inner voice of his, telling her his true feelings. Telling her wonders… If he was purely fucking her as a “service”, that sense of contact wouldn’t have been there, would it? Surely? And yet she had a disquieting feeling that it was going to be even harder than ever now to unravel the inner workings of her tall, blond lover’s mind…and his heart.

This is such bad timing!
Twisting the strap of her bag, she flopped down onto one of the lounge’s luxurious deeply upholstered couches to wait for the arrival of the next flight from Milan. Even just from Renata’s jumbled account last night, Hettie already felt a real sympathy for the lost and displaced Darryl, but to have him arrive now? When she already had enough on her plate trying to work out how to break through Starr’s defenses?

Sighing, and still grappling with her confused thoughts, she smoothed her fingers nervously down the seam of her close-fitting black jeans, thinking of Renata’s hastily scrawled fax that’d been waiting on the breakfast table this morning.

Hettie had been hoping for a day or two breathing space at least, but no, it seemed Darryl would be arriving this morning—on any one of three different flights!—and that he’d been given a photo of his hostess and would spot her at the airport himself!

Thanks, Ren. Thanks a bunch!
Why the hell can’t you embrace modern technology like the rest of us and email
me
a photograph of
him
? It isn’t too much to ask.
But Ren was probably back in bed with the obnoxious-sounding Fausto by now, having blissfully cast off all responsibility for her confused charge.

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Hettie tried to discreetly adjust her clothing. Last night’s athleticism, and Starr’s size and strength, had taken a toll on the most intimate areas of her anatomy. Her pussy felt delicately inflamed, and even though her black silk bra was almost weightless, it still chafed against her swollen, well-mouthed nipples. And the trouble with these discomforts was that they induced a vicious circle. The more she’d been petted and fondled and stroked, the more sensitive her erogenous zones became. And the more sensitive they were, the more easily they became aroused. Which meant she was on fire to be caressed again. Right here in this most public of public places! Trying to ignore the fact that she desperately wanted to be back in Starr’s arms, with his firm penis moving inside her, she set her mind to the imminent arrival.

I suppose he’ll be a bit of a nerd
.

Years spent scrabbling around antiquities with an eccentric archaeologist wasn’t likely to produce poise, confidence and social self-awareness. But still, she’d been bookish herself in her youth, and there was nothing wrong with being a geek.

Nevertheless, Hettie felt uneasy as she looked around the discreetly busy lounge.

And I’m supposed to teach the poor devil about sex? I think not, Ren. I think not…

But as she scanned the occupant of the couch next to hers, her sensual awareness piqued, despite everything.

I wouldn’t mind teaching
him
a thing or two
! she thought, feeling profoundly ashamed that she could think lustful thoughts about another man while she was still in such an emotional turmoil over Starr. Even so, she blushed again as her sensitized body responded automatically to the figure asleep a few feet away, her bruised nipples puckering a little and her soft sexual furrow growing decidedly moist.

He was a truly remarkable-looking male.

“Sleeping beauty” was youngish, Latinate and angelically handsome. His impossibly long legs were encased in form-fitting designer denim, and a cloudlike white linen shirt was the most perfect foil for his toffee-colored Mediterranean complexion. Tousled hair—black as pitch and nearly as long as her own—tumbled to his lean shoulders, and she could swear she’d never seen a pair of thicker or more luscious eyelashes or a mouth that so plainly begged for kisses.